


I could sing

by brinkleytown



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinkleytown/pseuds/brinkleytown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TW: Eating Disorders<br/>For my own prompt on rskink.<br/>I really have no idea what this style is supposed to be. I have never written like this before and I doubt I will again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I could sing

He says he is not worried—but his post-graduation prospects are slim. He says he is not hungry—but I can feel every rib and vertebrae. He says he is alright, but he wears three jumpers just to stay warm.

His eighteenth birthday should not look like this—it should be firewhiskey nicked from pub under the cover of Prongs’ cloak and laughter and certainly a literal “BANG!” somewhere in this castle.

Instead it is some sort of horror film with cake. The blood is the freshly heated chocolate the house elves drizzled on top before handing the platter over to me, wishing _Mr. Lupin to get well soon, sir._ Moony is the favorite—they caught on quickly to the monthly deliveries of rare steaks to a Mr. Lupin in the hospital wing. And I have no doubt that they noticed when he stopped requesting seconds, then had leftovers, and finally let the prime cuts grow cold.

 _Happy Birthday, Moony,_ I sing softly as I re-enter the charmed bed curtains with my surprise in hand. The silent plea— _Please let it not be your last._

\---

The plate lies on the bed in front of him and with messy, shaking fingers he grabs another bite, shoving it into his mouth. My actions tonight betrayed his trust. I have hurt him…

I promised a game of chess and an early night. I promised that for just today, no one would worriedly eye his empty seat at breakfast or chide him to _stop playing with your food_ at dinner. I was silent. I played the game. And then I brought something he couldn’t resist. It was compulsion that drove each mouthful, and I didn’t want to watch.

I am pulled out of my reverie by a particularly large sniff and nearly vomit when his nose drips onto the next moist handful and he consumes it anyway. He is clutching his stomach and asking me to take it away, telling me it hurts, that he hurts, and _fuck you, Padfoot._

I plead, _just one more piece, Moony, just one more_ knowing he does not need badgering. Not even Wormtail, eats this much or this quickly, but despite his protests, he shows no signs of slowing.

I am torn. Through the thin fabric of his white undershirt, I can see his stomach distending like one of Evans' starving muggle children in Africa and I know he is beyond discomfort. But I am nearly certain that he has not eaten since the transformation—when the wolf took over and cried out for blood.

We came prepared with a basket of carnivorous delights hung about Prongs’ antlers because Moony is too weak to run. But that was Thursday. It is now past midnight; the wee hours of Tuesday morn.

There is audible sob, his suffering surpassing my manipulative nourishment. I banish the dishes. His eyes follow their soaring path between the curtains with a mixture of panic and relief.

There is chocolate in his hair and on his chin and his eyes are red and nose runny. But he is still alive and that is beautiful—he is beautiful. _I love you_ I whisper. _I am sorry, and I love you._ He shivers in spite of my warming charm. And I pull him into my lap and I hold him close, cleaning tears and confection from his skin with my lips and tongue.

My grasp is the only thing keeping him from retching in the loo. The river from his eyes flows anew. So I press kisses to the shell of his ear, whispering consolation and promises of a future, together, if only he will stick around for it.

We compromise—for now, it is _just toast,_ no _butter and jam too, love_ —but he’s hit the dark (chocolatey) bottom of the lake and is ready to swim back up.

He is crying and I am happy. Tears roll down his cheeks and I am smiling. Heart-wrenching sobs shake his impossibly tiny body and I could sing.


End file.
